


A Friend in Need

by TextualDeviance



Series: The Raven and the Dove [27]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: M/M, glorious manpain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2014-07-21
Packaged: 2018-02-09 19:06:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1994397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TextualDeviance/pseuds/TextualDeviance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ragnar is miserable and plagued by dreams of Athelstan. He comes to Torstein for comfort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Friend in Need

**Author's Note:**

> Set during 2x06. Follows [Precious Things](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1935270)

Ragnar knew that Athelstan was likely dead, yet the dreams kept getting clearer.

As the promise of spring crept into the air, Ragnar’s blood had begun to stir. A long, lean winter of waiting and wondering had made his limbs ache for freedom. He threw himself into fatherhood to take away the bite—bonding again with Bjorn and spending every moment he could with baby Sigurd—but his nerves could not be calmed merely by their love. In his waking hours, his thoughts were consumed with his plans to exact penance from Jarl Borg for what he had done, but once his eyes were closed, all was painted with another face: one with pale skin, an innocent smile, and huge, fjord-blue eyes.

Some of the dreams were pleasant: snippets of memory, recalling the many joyful hours spent in each other’s company. Some, however, were not. He saw blood—too much blood. He smelled fear and shame. He felt unbearable pain. He often woke in a cold sweat, frantically looking around for his sword to defeat whatever enemies were so tormenting the beloved man.

He had kept the true extent of the dreams from most everyone. He was sure that Aslaug could sense his continuing unease, even without her gift, but neither he nor she had brought up the issue in months, choosing instead to enjoy the company of their sons. Bjorn had, as promised, plenty of questions about his father’s unusual relationship, but the issue of what had become of Athelstan was never discussed.

Only Torstein, strangely enough, seemed to understand. Late one evening, shortly after Horik had told him of Athelstan’s supposed betrayal, Ragnar sought out his trusted friend, hoping that a night of conversation—and a significant amount of ale—might help ease his mind.

“Do you think Rollo will have success in luring Jarl Borg back here?” Torstein filled Ragnar’s cup as they sat down at the table in his home.

Ragnar nodded. “I am hoping so, yes.” He drank deeply of the ale, willing it to quickly go to his nerves.

Torstein looked away. “Forgive me for saying so, but I admit to some concern that Borg may yet sway Rollo to his side again.”

“I forgive you; it’s a reasonable concern,” Ragnar said. “Were it not for Rollo’s loyalty in fighting against Borg’s invasion of Kattegat, and getting my family to safety, I would share it. But my brother and I have had many words since then. I believe he is a changed man. I believe he will play the part I have assigned him in bringing the traitor to justice.”

“And what of King Horik? He wants to ally with Borg for our return to Wessex. Will he support you in your actions?”

Ragnar shrugged. “I’m not sure I care.”

Torstein raised an eyebrow. “But he is king.”

“He is, yes. But I am coming to understand that he is not an honorable man. However much I may detest Jarl Borg, at least he wears his treachery openly. Horik is playing games with me, and I’m growing tired of it.” He downed his ale, hoping it would wash away the bitterness he felt.   

Torstein quickly refilled the cup. “Games? How so? I thought he was a sure ally.”

“I once thought so, too, but now I have grave doubts about that.” Ragnar sipped thoughtfully. “Many months ago, after Horik told me to leave Jarl Borg behind when we went to Wessex, I grew suspicious of his motives. Knowing that they shared some interests, I asked Floki to gain his confidence and report back to me if Horik said or did anything that might indicate that he is not truly a friend.”

“Well, that explains a lot.” Torstein smirked. “I had been wondering why Floki was behaving so strangely of late. He’s always been an odd fish, but when we were in Wessex, I wondered if perhaps he had finally partaken of too many mushrooms, and had permanently twisted his brain.”

“Well, that’s still possible. I don’t understand that man myself sometimes.” Ragnar grinned. “But yes: much of what he has done lately has been a matter of gaining Horik’s trust. I am sorry I did not tell you sooner; I wanted to keep the plan between only Floki and myself until I knew more.”

“I understand. And do you now? Know more?”

“Yes. Although it’s not necessarily because of anything Floki has observed. It is because of something Horik said at the feast last night—about Athelstan.”

“He implied that Athelstan had betrayed you.”

Ragnar smiled thinly. “I think we both know exactly why that was a shameless lie.”

Torstein chuckled. “Indeed.” He drained his own cup, and set to refilling it.

“It is funny in a way, though.” Ragnar scratched his chin. “The forces that require me to be so circumspect about Athelstan are also what allow Horik to so easily say he had been disloyal. In his mind, a Christian slave—even one that had been freed, as Athelstan was—would quickly turn back to his people if given the slightest chance, and conspire to take revenge on those who had enslaved him. Without knowing of the bond we share, it might be easy to assume Athelstan would betray me thus. And while I admit to some small doubt, my heart still tells me that Athelstan would not do so. The man is one of the most honest and gentle I have ever known. I do not believe he has the guile to have lied to me about why he wanted to stay behind.”

“I agree,” Torstein said. “You know I was initially concerned about him wanting to leave you if he were to return to England,  but I have had some time to think on it now, after all that you have told me, and after watching him fight by your side. I think he only wants to be of service to you in whatever way he can. I cannot therefore imagine him betraying you so deeply.”

Ragnar had wanted to believe that himself, but hearing someone else say it was a great comfort anyway. “Thank you for saying so, and for confirming my feelings on the matter. That is chief among the reasons why I believe Horik is lying to me. There is also the matter of my negotiation with the Saxon king. Ecbert is a shrewd man. He sees the benefits of a potential alliance. He would not have simply attacked Horik’s camp unprovoked.”

“You trust him that much after one conversation?” Torstein looked skeptical.

“I cannot explain why any clearer, but I do. However, my trust in him isn’t actually what anchors my view about Horik’s dissembling. That comes back again to Athelstan.”

“In what way?”

“In Horik’s blind hatred of Christians, he has never bothered to learn anything about them and their customs. He does not know what I know—what Athelstan has told me. Even if I am entirely wrong about Ecbert’s desire to work with us, and Athelstan’s loyalty, I know it would be nearly impossible for him to simply run back to his people and expect them to act on his direction against us.” Ragnar’s eyes narrowed. “He once told me of something they call ‘apostasy’—a Christian denying or abandoning his faith. Christians, especially priests, are usually expected to defend their faith, even unto death if that is their only choice. One who did not sacrifice himself rather than act in service to another god would be considered a traitor of the highest measure.”

“So Athelstan . . .”

“. . . could not have simply come to them, dressed as a Northman and with the blood of Christians on his hands, and receive a joyful welcome. Chances are strong that they would sooner execute him on sight than believe him even to be a useful source of information on their enemies.”

Torstein sat back in his chair and sighed. “So what do you make of the attack on the camp, then? How would that have happened?”

Ragnar shrugged. “It might be that Horik did something to provoke Ecbert. He never wanted to negotiate—honestly, I think he was even lying about wanting Athelstan to stay and act as his translator. He might have tried an attack with the smaller force, and earned himself a thorough beating in the process. But I also don’t think it unlikely that he’s simply lying about being attacked at all, or that perhaps he even staged something himself, to root out anyone who might be disloyal to him.”

“That would . . . include Athelstan, though.” Torstein’s tone was delicate.

Ragnar’s chest tightened. “Yes.”

“Then he is likely dead. If not by the hand of his people, for betraying his god, then by Horik’s hand.”

Ragnar blinked at the sting in his eyes, and tried to steady himself by finishing his second cup of ale. While the buzz was physically pleasant, it did little to soothe the ache. “You are probably right.”

“I’m sorry, Ragnar.” Torstein reached for his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze, which actually did provide some comfort that the ale thus far had not.

“I’m not convinced that he is dead, though.” Ragnar smiled sadly. “I know that is most likely wishful thinking, but I can’t help it. For one, I think if he truly had betrayed Horik, and had paid for that with his life, Horik would have been all too proud to tell me for certain about this. He would have bragged about killing the traitor in his midst. That he did not—that instead he claims no knowledge of Athelstan’s fate—says much.”

“Perhaps.” Torstein frowned. “If he did not return, though, he would still be back in Wessex. And as you say, it would be unlikely for him to find open arms there.”

Ragnar nodded. “It is unlikely, yes. But Athelstan is cleverer than many give him credit for. He managed to keep me from killing him when I first found him hiding at his temple, and I have been grateful for that ever since. I seriously doubt he would find ready acceptance again, but he might somehow have been able to talk his way out of immediate execution, at least. Perhaps he has only been imprisoned as yet. And in any case, there are the dreams.”

“Dreams?”

Ragnar sighed heavily. “I see him so clearly, Torstein. I cannot even describe how much so. I have had little restful sleep since our return, and though much of that has been my anger and worry about Jarl Borg’s actions, much is also because I cannot stop the endless visions disturbing my nights. I have never before had such persistent, intense dreams about any other person—even Lagertha, about whom I still dreamed many years after she left.” He sat up, and leaned forward on his elbows. “I have told Aslaug of them, as she has a gift of prophecy, and while she cannot see anything clearly, she at least feels that they are meaningful. It may be only that the gods are speaking to me of what he is experiencing after death, but I know there is at least something to this. There has to be.”

Torstein scanned his face, then swallowed more ale. “I want to believe you,” he finally said. “But surely you must admit that perhaps you only dream of him because you mourn him so deeply.”

Ragnar closed his eyes. Even without being asleep, the images sprang instantly to mind. This one was a fond memory: He and Athelstan lying entwined under a tree in the hills, tenderly caressing as they recovered from an impassioned lovemaking session. Nearby, a stream burbled merrily, and a hunting hawk cried out far overhead, wheeling through an impossibly blue sky.

“What are you thinking?” Athelstan had asked, his slender, deft fingers twirling circles in the wiry hair on Ragnar’s belly.

“Only that your skin is as soft as that of a newborn babe,” Ragnar had replied. “And that I wish that I could kiss you every time I see you.”

“I wish that, too, and I am sorry that you cannot,” Athelstan had replied. “But perhaps we can make up for some of those lost kisses now.” He hovered over Ragnar, a bright smile painting his face, and descended . . .  

“Ragnar?” Torstein shook his arm.

He blinked against the flickering firelight as Torstein’s face came back into focus. He noted that his cheeks were wet, and that his body trembled. So lost had he been in the memory that he hadn’t realized he had broken down in the middle of it. He hastily brushed at his sticky eyes. “I’m fine,” he insisted.

“No. You’re not.” Torstein got up, and moved to sit on the bench next to him. He threw an arm around Ragnar’s shoulders. Ragnar resisted at first, trying to retain his dignity, but then gave up the pretense. Few men would he have trusted to see him in such a state, but this was definitely one. He allowed himself to sink into the strong embrace, resting his cheek against the soft fabric of Torstein’s tunic, and the tears came back in a flood.

“I miss him,” Ragnar rasped.

“I know.” Torstein stroked bowstring-roughened fingers across Ragnar’s brow. “I’m so sorry. I wish I could bring him back to you. I wish I could change all that’s happened.”

“Thank you. Just being able to talk about it is helping.” Ragnar noted the steady heartbeat under his ear, and found it strangely calming. “I love my wife and my sons, but I must be strong for them. I cannot show them how destroyed I am by this.”

“Well, you needn’t worry about my opinion of you. I know what a strong man you are. Very little could make me change my mind.” Torstein grinned. “And if ever I did change it, I’m sure you would soon find a way to make me change it back.”

Ragnar returned the grin. “I would, yes.”

“I only wish there were some better way I could ease your pain. If only I . . .” A strange look crossed his face, and he stared at Ragnar for a moment. 

“What?”

“I was thinking that perhaps there is another way I could comfort you.”

“Another way?” Suddenly, Ragnar realized what Torstein was thinking. “Oh!”

Torstein shrugged. “If you would like it, I would be happy to. Not . . . well, not _everything_ you’re used to with Athelstan, I’m guessing, but something, perhaps.”

Ragnar went quiet for a moment while he considered. It was true that Torstein’s warm and strong embrace was comforting, and in a different way than that which he got from his sweet, soft wife. Yet much as he loved the man, and deeply appreciated the affection and understanding, Torstein was not what he needed. Not in that way, at least. He sat up, and rubbed the last of the wetness from his eyes. “Thank you. In another circumstance, I might have been interested. But I am afraid it wouldn’t help me now. It is not a man’s body for which I ache, but a specific man. I’m afraid you can’t give me what I truly need.”

Torstein nodded. “I understand. I hope you’re not offended by the offer.”

Ragnar grinned big, and landed a playful punch on Torstein’s arm. “Of course not. I hope you’re not offended by my declining it.”

“No. Though my pride might be a little wounded. I do fancy myself quite the stallion after all.”

Ragnar threw his head back and laughed, delighting in feeling relieved enough to do so. “A stallion you still are, my friend.” He waggled his eyebrows. “And a fine one at that. As I say, in another circumstance . . .” He winked.

Torstein puffed out his chest. “Glad to know I’m still attractive!” He nudged Ragnar’s knee with his. “Are you at least feeling a little better, though?”

Ragnar nodded. “I am. I cannot express how grateful I am just to be understood and not judged. There is so much weighing on my mind right now that at times I’m not sure I can manage it all. Knowing you have my back on this—and everything else—means all the earth and sky to me.”

“I will _always_ have your back. I guarantee you will never have cause to doubt that.” He set a clear, unflinching gaze on Ragnar. “And if Athelstan is alive, be assured that I will do all I can—I will give my life, if I need to—to help you bring him safely back home.”  


End file.
